


Remember, Remember

by scrub456



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bonfire Night, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guy Fawkes Night, Mary is gone, Memories, Moriarty is Dead, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post series 4, Protective Sherlock, Remember remember, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, The Thing With The Peas, a bit of angst, evidence of traumatic events, the fifth of November
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:43:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8477524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: Sherlock remembers it all in excruciating detail. He knows John does too, if his nightmares are any indication. It's been years since the bonfire, but every fifth of November is a terrible reminder.





	

It's been years. Sherlock knows the exact number. Of course he does.

He knows the months. The days. The Timepiece of Significant Events in his Mind Palace keeps record down to the minute.

_**Save souls now!  
John or James Watson?** _

Sherlock remembers it all in excruciating detail. He knows John does too, if his nightmares (though more seldom now than ever before) are any indication. But they never spoke of that night again, not after seeing the video at Appledore. Not after Magnussen.

It has been years.

There is no more Moriarty. _**Did you miss me-** Stop. No. Dull. No._

Mary is gone. _**I will**_ **never _let that happen-_** _Stop. Pain. No. Hurt. John. No._

There is no child. _**No input.** Data transferred to secured server. File corrupted. Access denied._

John had been broken. _**Why is everything always my fault-** Oh John, no. No. John._

Sherlock was broken too. **...Never _let you down-_** _Failure. Stop. Enttäuschung. Stop. Échoué. Stop. Разочарование. STOP._

Years.

John is home, where he belongs. Has been. It's been _years._   His warmth, his light, rekindled. Time. It took time. The spark nearly extinguished. The flame, smoldering and smoking, almost died. Sherlock feared he might die along with it.

Fire, by its nature is unpredictable. When it has a mind to ignite, it cannot be deterred. It is rapid. Consuming. _Revealing._

John is back. He is home. It has been years.

_**Remember, remember.** _

The bonfire, Sherlock thinks, is an appropriate metaphor. What he doesn't understand, what he cannot piece together, is why. Why does this keep happening?

The fifth of November. _Remember, remember._ Every year. And it's been _years._

It began after... After Mary.

A blog post. A hacker. The video footage appears on John's blog. Every fifth of November. _Remember, remember._

John found it the first time. The time right after... He was still broken. Raw. The fractured bits, the parts that had been crushed and damaged, hadn't had time to set properly. Fuel to the fire. An accelerant. A white hot flash of fury and emotion, it burned away too quickly leaving destruction and reopened wounds in its wake.

The message is clear. It never deviates. _Remember, remember._ A terrible reminder of what was. Or worse, what could be. Life is infuriatingly fragile. Security an illusion. _Remember, remember._

It's been years. Sherlock has intercepted the rest. Too many. Every year without fail. Every year since...

He's done everything he knows to do. Traces. Extensive tracking. He has a world map hidden in his sock drawer. He'll pull it out later, when John retires to his room for the night-- they won't go out, not even for a case, on the fifth of November _(remember, remember);_ the smell of wood smoke and fireworks makes John nervous in a crowd (Sherlock too) -- and he'll mark the coordinates of the IP address where the hack originated from. Mycroft will send men to the site, and they will find the discarded server used to upload the video to the now abandoned YouTube account. 

They will make no further progress.

Just like last year. And the year before.

It's been years.

Mycroft knows his brother well enough that he won't put words to the thought that perhaps it's just a cruel prank. He's also familiar enough with psychological warfare to know exactly what this looks like. So he keeps his peace, and he spends the resources on the one favor his little brother requests each year.

Sherlock deletes the post, and in its place writes his own entry, an impromptu essay about the effects of external temperature on the elasticity of chewing gum and the impact on petty theft due to the fluctuations in the cost of new shoes. It's ludicrous, really (his data is sound). His objective is to prompt John to change his password without asking him to do so.

John doesn't know about the hacked posts, Sherlock is certain. Mostly. It's entirely likely John does know, and simply puts up a strong front. Sherlock huffs at the possibility; his flatmate still manages to surprise him. It is, in fact, feasible that John knows and is letting Sherlock deal with it. Or that he doesn't know and he needs Sherlock to play guardian.

Both are perfectly John Watson responses to the situation. Sherlock huffs again and slams the laptop closed.

John is watching him over the top of his newspaper. Guy Fawkes watches from the front page and the headline, _Remember, Remember,_ mocks him.

"All right?" Concern clouds John’s eyes and he lowers the paper. Of course he knows the day. _Remember, remember._ He licks his lips and folds the paper shut. Sherlock knows with certainty now that John knows.

John knows and he doesn't say a word.

It's been years.

He pushes himself up from his armchair. Sherlock frowns as John limps (it's nearly imperceptible, but Sherlock _is_ the one watching, and he knows John better than he knows himself most days) to the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock follows him.

"Hungry?"

Sherlock hums. It's not an outright admission.

"Take away?" John shrugs and nods to the stack of menus on the counter.

Flipping through the menus, Sherlock scrunches his face. "The thing with the peas?" It's a veiled invitation to stay tucked safely within the confines of their own flat, as they do every year. John recognizes it as such, and smiles. The light has returned to his eyes. He doesn't have to say thank you, Sherlock doesn't expect it of him, but he nods once anyway.

They both flinch at the sound of children lighting firecrackers and shouting out on the street. _Remember, remember._

John clenches his left hand and glances at the windows. Sherlock huffs and nods and does not roll his eyes. His response is not to John, but to the imbeciles who arm their children with explosives and release them to the world; John understands this. Sherlock retreats to the sitting room to pull the curtains tight. He turns the telly on and picks a documentary on the plight of the North American honey bee. He's watched it six times, but they both welcome the neutral noise.

Making more noise than is necessary, John is pulling out pots and ingredients. He's humming the tune Sherlock's been composing. It makes Sherlock smile as he silently retrieves the peas from the freezer so John won't see the length of human intestines in the good Tupperware -- he really needs to finish that experiment. He takes over chopping the onions so John can see to the concoction on the stove.

John sets a cup of tea on the table for Sherlock without a second glance. Sherlock's phone pings with a text. He knows it's Mycroft, and he suspects he knows the outcome of their enquiry. He ignores it and settles into the task before him. He's making dinner with John.

It's been years, and John is here.


End file.
